


A Morbid Start

by Lumielles



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Awkward Flirting, Backstory, Childbirth, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Secrets, Family Shenanigans, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Force Shenanigans, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Non-Linear Narrative, Pregnancy, lady has a baby in a sith tomb during a flashback, referenced adultry, star wars slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2020-12-07 18:50:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20980685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumielles/pseuds/Lumielles
Summary: (previously titled the Courting of a Kuren)The origin story for Idan and Petra, both their own early beginnings and how they ended up falling in love (the first time) and how they ended up becoming the parents to the future Darth Imperious, aka Aramys.





	1. Chapter One - Sour Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> There is some (poorly translated) huttese in this, I'll put the translations at the bottom.

Clouds covered the sky, but not one drop of rain had fallen. The whole afternoon had been surprisingly dry, something Petra didn’t take for granted as she followed the Lady like a shadow through the busy shopping district of Kaas City. There wasn’t any kind of plan for the Lady’s chaotic store-bouncing; every time an employee approached her offering help, she’d roll her eyes and tell them that she wasn’t looking for anything in particular. They’d apologize, bowing their heads as they warily eyed the lightsaber clipped to her belt.

In the end, nothing was purchased. Two long hours of window shopping with nothing to show for it. Petra dragged her feet as they slowly made their way back to the taxi station. Puddles of rain leftover from the morning had soaked into her shoes; a blister had begun to form at her ankle. Her footwear had been chosen for a meeting at the Citadel, downright improper for hours of walking around. The promise of being able to sit down for the taxi ride was the only thing making her put one foot in front of the other, the only reason why she hadn’t already collapsed.

“Hold on a moment, Petra,” Vemora said as she slowed. She brought a long, talon-like finger to her chin as she looked past the large, ostentatious fountain in front of them.

“My Lady, it looks like it might rain; I didn’t bring the umbrella, we should—”

“I said _wait_,” Vemora hissed as she glared over her shoulder, “I think I found what I was looking for.”

As Vemora turned back around, Petra could hear the smile in her voice. Across the small square, a rodian slaver in a suit raucously greeted each person who passed him, stepping into their way so they were forced to either interact or walk around. As he blocked a woman’s path, he gestured with swooping arms to the short line-up of people standing in front of a poorly kept shuttle. It’d been adorned with colorful banners and flags, meant to catch the eye but thrown up hastily. From what Petra could see, they were a mix of humans and aliens, all with binders on their wrists.

“You want another slave, my Lady?” Petra said, coming to stand beside her.

“Someone has to watch that boy of yours.”

“But Landris—”

“Landris is old,” Vemora sucked on her teeth, “She can barely keep up with the house. And the estate here is too much for just the two of you. Why are you complaining? This benefits you, you get less work.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Petra bowed her head.

The blister that’d been forming on her foot felt worse as she followed Vemora over to the slaver. She wished she could scream, beg the Lady to come back without her another time; but the Lady never went anywhere without her anymore. And as much as it bothered her to play the part of the woman who came before her, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Just like the people on display in front of them.

As she expected, the slaver leaped in front of them, broadly gesturing with thick arms at the stock he claimed to take such pride in. The Lady humored him for a moment, overselling her interest with various mm’s and ah’s. The slaver waved his hand over his head and started the same long-winded spiel that he’d done to everyone before them. The Lady’s attention made him speak louder the longer he went on.

“Only the best in Kaas City, my Lord,” he said.

“I prefer Lady,” she dismissively waved her hand, “Lord sounds so stuffy.”

“Of course, my Lady, my apologies—”

Petra turned her head as someone came around the shuttle, struggling to hold the small pile of supply boxes. The holder of the boxes couldn’t be seen, save for human hands and skinny human legs; boney ankles looked like they’d fracture with one wrong step.

“_Kriff_—” Petra heard them hiss under their breath as the top box toppled over.

Various citrus fruits rolled around her and the Lady’s feet as the top box fell and spilled its contents onto the sidewalk. One of the fruits rolled right up to the toe of her shoe that peeked out from under the long skirt of her uniform.

“_Idan,”_ the slaver snapped over his shoulder, “Uba stupa, shulu ches ko!”

“Tagwa, lorda,” came the voice behind the second box, the owner of the skinny legs, responding in the same language the slaver had yelled at him in. Petra could only assume it was a dialect of Huttese, but she didn’t know the language well enough to be sure.

“You were saying?” Vemora forced a smile, “I don’t have all day.”

The boy carrying the boxes dropped them down by the shuttle’s door, turning his back to them. Black curls fluffed out from his head, resembling the tufts of fur that Petra would brush off the Lady’s old cat. Boney shoulders with arms and legs a bit too long for the rest of him, his plain black shirt had a hole by the shoulder blade and there were what looked like oil stains all over his brown cropped pants. She couldn’t get a look at his face as he bent down and began to gather the escaped citrus. 

“Petra, don’t just stand there,” Vemora said, cutting off the slaver. She pointed a long, painted nail at the ground.

“Of course, my Lady.”

The fruits at her feet were gathered quickly into her arms. They were large and oblong; she couldn’t hold more than four of them at a time. She tried to hold the fifth one with her elbow but ended up losing three instead. The bounced back to the ground with hollow thuds,

“Here, I can take them,” said the boy, the slaver had called him something, but Petra was unsure if that was his name or a Huttese term.

“Thank you,” she looked up, seeing his face for the first time.

Curled strips of silvery gray hair sprung from the nerf-lick that sat at the right corner of his forehead, with more gray scattered throughout the black. Clusters of acne covered his jaw and narrow, but prominent, chin. He was overall unremarkable; an awkward looking boy who hadn’t yet grown into his long triangular nose or pole-like limbs. As he scooped the fruits from her arms, he offered her a quick nod.

“Lorda oressed toooh nancee bal uba gushu?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, I don’t—” Petra shook her head.

“Oh—sorry,” he looked over his shoulder to the slaver, who was now in the middle of explaining how his slaves had been chipped, “I was asking if you think he’s dressed up enough for the occasion.”

Petra didn’t answer, she was squinting up at him. His voice had cracked when he said ‘up’. There was a small patch of black hair growing on the right side of his upper lip, barely noticeable unless you were close to him. 

“Is there something on my face?”

“How old are you?”

“How old are _you_?” he shot back quickly, the smile that’d been slowly growing had all but disappeared.

“I’m eighteen,” she answered proudly, straightening her shoulders. She could only assume his eyes were a dark shade of brown as she refused to break eye contact, but in the poor lighting, and with his brows furrowed so deeply, it was impossible to tell.

“Good for you,” he grumbled as he turned back to the shuttle.

“What about this one?” the Lady said loudly, pointing to a middle-aged human woman wearing binders, one of the slaves lined up in front of the shuttle. Even from where Petra stood, she could see that the woman lacked any signs of life in her eyes.

“She doesn’t look it, but she’s strong, my Lady; very strong and quiet. Does good work,” the slaver insisted.

“I don’t need strength,” Vemora curled her upper lip.

“Ah,” the slaver wrung his hands, “Very well; it must be human?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It can be whatever it wants as longs as it’s good at cleaning. This one can’t wash a dish properly even if it showed her how,” Vemora laughed, waving a limp hand toward Petra.

There was still one fruit left at her feet, the boy must not have seen it either. She probably shouldn’t have responded with such an abrupt question, but she didn’t have a lot of experience interacting with others her age. If he was even around her age. She wouldn’t have been at all surprised to learn he was fourteen, just tall for his age.

The boy was still trying to get all the fruits back into the box, kneeling beside it. Petra closed the space between them, standing behind him for a moment before she cleared her throat.

“You missed one,” Petra said, handing him the fruit as he turned.

“Thank you,” he took it from her, dropping it into the box with the others.

“I agree with you,” she said before he finished turning back around, “I think he’s overdressed.”

As the boy smiled, a dimple appeared on his left cheek, “He thinks he’s impressing buyers. I told him he looks ever more like a swindler; dressed like a Sith while he keeps everyone in the same clothes for days. I would talk to him about it, but he’s not going to listen to me.”

They both stopped talking, turning to their masters as they continued down the line towards them, stopping again for Vemora’s inspection of a younger-looking bothan. The boy waited for his master to begin speaking again.

“I’m Idan,” he said after the slaver’s first few words.

“Petra,” she whispered with a half-nod. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” Idan offered his hand, his palms were covered in grime from the boxes he’d been moving.

Before Petra could begin to come up with a reason on why should couldn’t shake his filthy hand, she felt Vemora at her side, towering over the both of them. 

“And this one?” Vemora pointed her finger over Petra’s shoulder, who moved her head to the side to give the Lady more room, “Why is this one free-range?”

“Aha,” the slaver laughed nervously once again, “This one is not for sale; just payment for a personal debt. Was a nanny on a farm. Worthless.”

“If it’s worthless, why do you keep it?” Vemora’s velvet-covered voice drawled as she took a step forward, pushing Petra out of the way with her hip, “A nanny…” her finger traced under Idan’s chin, “Is that true?”

“Yes, it—” the slaver began, stepping closer. Both of them now hovered over Idan, who was doing his best to keep his eyes on the ground.

“My question wasn’t for you,” Vemora snapped, “Don’t interrupt.”

“Most humble of apologies, my Lady, I—”

“_Stop. Talking_.”

“Yes, of course, again my apology—” he choked on the rest of the word as his hands flew to his throat and scratched at an unseen hand.

“There are no third warnings.”

The slaver gasped and stumbled back, arms fell back to his sides as he tried to catch his breath.

“Well?” she shouted as her attention snapped back to Idan.

If he was afraid of the Lady, his face didn’t show it. His expression was oddly sullen, and the most he did as the Lady shouted was blink. 

“It’s true,” he nodded gently, “I watched after four children for about… three years.”

“And then you were lost to repay a debt? To this man?”

“That’s correct.”

Petra cleared her throat and made sure to check that she had only Idan’s attention before she mouthed ‘my Lady’ with great exaggeration.

“My Lady,” Idan added quickly, looking back to Vemora.

Petra’s nose twitched as she briefly wondered why she felt relief when the Lady smiled and leaned back, retracting her claw from Idan’s chin. 

“I want this one,” she said, “How much to repay his old Masters debt?”

Only silence followed until Vemora turned to the slaver and growled, “Now I_ am_ talking to you.”

“Oh! Uh—Yes, about 60,000 credits, my Lady, far more expensive than what I have over here—”

“I’ve inspected your stock and they left me disappointed. Petra, give me my wallet. 60,000 credits more than doable. My son’s speeder cost _twice_ that.”

Both Idan and the slaver looked on in what could only be assumed was shock as Petra reached into the pouch hidden in the long sleeve of her uniform. Idan’s face began to contort as if a bug had landed on his nose and he couldn’t use his hands to shoo it away. She couldn’t imagine how he must have been feeling, being told that his life was worth less than a new speeder. It was obvious that he wasn’t sure how he felt about it either.

“My Lady is far too generous—"

“Quiet. Do you have a name?” Vemora asked, impatiently plucking the wallet from Petra’s hands the second it appeared.

“Idan, my Lady,” he said, straightening his shoulders as he tried to regain control of his face.

“_Just_ Idan?”

“Idan Lumielle.”

The Lady didn’t react as she returned her attention to the slaver, holding out a credit chip and wordlessly waving it in front of his face.

“Right over here, my Lady,” the slaver swept his arms towards the back of the shuttle.

“If you have anything you want to take with you, grab it now,” Petra said under her breath once she was confident that the Lady was out of earshot. The sound of the busy square behind them helped, it seemed many were taking advantage of the dry weather.

“I—” Idan began, his mouth hanging open as he reached into his pocket with one hand, “I don’t have anything, just me.”

“Petra!” Vemora called as the slaver scanned her credit chip, “Take him home and get him cleaned up. I have more things I need to do.”

“Of course, my Lady,” Petra responded loudly.

“You _do_ know the way home? Or do I need to remind you? Again.”

“I know the way, my Lady,” Petra said, doing all she could to keep any hints of anger out of her voice.

It wasn’t unheard of for the Lady to let her off-leash, but it had been growing rare. The tracker embedded somewhere on her body prevented her from trying to do anything the Lady would disapprove of or from trying to run off. Not that the Lady had to worry about any of that. There was no place for Petra to run to, and nothing scared her more than the idea of being alone. Even worse, alone in an unfamiliar place. Her shoulders touched her ears as she shook the thought from her head.

Idan still appeared to be confused, or in shock from the quick turn of events that had left him with a completely unknown future ahead of him. His eyes had widened to the size of small saucers; his mouth opened and closed repeatedly as he looked around the square as if someone was about to pop out and tell him it’d all been a joke.

“Are you alright?” Petra asked.

Idan gritted his teeth, baring them through an opened mouth frown, “I don’t know… what do I do?”

“You follow me,” Petra said, popping up on the balls of her feet as she rocked forward, “Before the Lady has to remind us again.”

“Right,” Idan whispered, running a hand down his face, “Lead the—lead the way.”


	2. Chapter Two - Grandiose Manner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petra shows Idan around his new home, and he tries to get to know her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't mean for the update to take this long. I lost someone close to me earlier this month, and it just sort of put all my creative endeavors on hold.

There was something in the air, a familiar smell, or the dense humidity that came with being in the jungle, that made Idan sure they weren’t far from where he grew up. For the first seven years, at least. The small landing pad within the walled confines of his new master’s estate was slick with sprinkling rain that fell, leaving a dewy veil on the top of Petra’s head. They were far from the outskirts of Kaas City, the trip here, via the Lady’s droid chauffeured speeder, had taken nearly an hour. Much too far considered the time it took to get there, according to Petra, who voiced her many opinions on the way. Idan had been too distracted by looking out the window to comprehend them each in their entirety, too busy looking for something that might remind him of home.

And it was still home, despite the decade that had passed since he’d been forced to leave it. There had been a shadow in the distance, but it had been too covered by fog rolling in from the mountains that surrounded the expansive jungle valley for him to see any detail. It could have been the tomb he and his mother spent hours upon hours helping restore and expand, or it could have been a giant fallen statue of a long-dead Sith Lord giving him the finger by accident after all their other stone fingers had crumbled away. There was no way to tell. Not without holonet access. 

The holonet was the last thing on Idan’s mind as the speeder disappeared over the treetops. He watched it, keeping his eyes on the massive trees that made the ten-foot perimeter wall seem miniature in comparison. Birds called out amongst the dense green foliage, birds he couldn’t hear in the city; birds that he didn’t even remember hearing before until that moment. Ten years since he had been able to look up at the Kaasian sky and not have the stars muted by the sprawling, bright cityscape that swallowed everything. As thunder cracked and rumbled overhead, a frisson of nostalgic excitement flashed across his skin, like the lighting that followed the thunder. He had counted the seconds between them, something he used to do whenever it got too loud.

It wasn’t too loud now. He opened his arms--as he carried nothing with him but the crystal in his pocket--and tilted his head back.

“Five,” he said, so caught up in his moment that he didn’t even register he’d spoken — five seconds between the boom and the flash.

“What are you on about?” Petra said from up ahead of him, having already made her way through half of the front courtyard. She was watching him over her shoulder, one blonde eyebrow quirked higher than the other.

“It sounds so much different out here,” he said, still lost. A droplet of rain that had collected on his forehead descended straight down the bridge of his nose as he straightened his shoulders and neck.

“The storm?” her voice broke through again.

Idan blinked, his arms falling back down at his sides, shoulders dropped with both embarrassment and disappointment. He must have looked like an idiot. “The city makes it sound different,” he said with an apologetic shrug, “You haven’t noticed?”

“Not at all,” she said with an aristocratic air, even lifting her nose a little, as if she had been too busy living her extraordinary life to listen to the weather.

Maybe she had been, Idan thought as the side of his mouth twitched into a half frown. He didn’t know her; they had only just met.

As Idan took two leaping steps to be at her side, she pulled the light loosely woven shawl tighter around her shoulders and continued, marching them past a fountain, crystal clear water launching from multiple jets in short bursts. The pattern appeared random at first, though Idan noticed that none of them were colliding in the air. The tiles at the bottom sparkled like submerged sapphires, their vibrancy hiding the water jets with illusionary perfection. He peered over the edge, seeing the reflection of his silhouette against the spray of lightning in the sky above him. There was a pronounced brushed out curl that had decided to point towards the clouds. Idan pressed his hand over it repeatedly, until he’d flattened it somewhat.

“It’s a lovely home--from what I can see,” he said. Thankfully Petra was small, with short legs. It didn’t take many steps to catch up with her again, “Though it seems big for one woman.”

Petra sighed, but nodded in agreement, “I’ve spoken to the Lady, told her that I don’t she didn’t have to live out here now that her children have grown and left. There are apartments in the city with just as much space—but she insists apartments are for places like Ziost. I prefer Ziost anyway; I have my own room there. I don’t here, or on the ship.”

“How many homes does this woman have?” he asked loudly, wincing at his volume.

“The _Lady_—“ she corrected his vocabulary with a click of her tongue—“inherited everything from her family and her two husbands.”

“Bet on my life that both husbands are dead,” he said under his breath.

“Yes, but it was a coincidence.”

“The coincidence being that they married the same woman,” he chuckled.

He had followed her under a canopied walkway, silken curtains the same dark burgundy as Petra’s dress hung like deadweight over white marble archways—soaked and heavy from the rain. At the end, they stopped in front of a door.

“You have an awfully brave mouth for someone who just got here,” she said, baring her wrist from the long sleeve of her dress, waving it in front of a small panel where a door handle would typically be.

It wasn’t the first time he’d heard something like that, and it wouldn’t be the last. The complaint was usually over how _big_ his mouth was, not how brave. It confused him for a moment, his occasional inability to properly read sarcasm had stalled his thought process. She wasn’t saying his mouth lacked fear, he realized quickly, but rather that he was overtly blunt—especially for someone new. _Oh._ Yes, he’d heard many complaints along those lines as well.

There was a hiss, and the door popped open like a pressure-sealed canister, but didn’t budge any farther than that. The door and its extravagance had Idan impressed; he couldn’t begin to imagine what the inside could look like. Twisted light ochre wood swirled with its natural twisted grain, inlaid with yellow and orange stained glass. Excitement chilled him again as he thought of his new home, or at least one of them. As much as Idan hated changing hands, there was always a thrill about learning his new living arrangements. The door creaked slowly as Petra threw all her weight against it, shoulder first. Before he had the chance to offer his assistance, it groaned open. Petra brushed off her shoulder, wiggling her head a little—quite pleased with herself.

It was cute, and Idan felt the corners of his mouth pull upward.

“We aren’t supposed to use the front door like this; we have a side entrance, you and I, but—“ she entered the home, a mansion if Idan had ever seen one, “Since this is your first time here, you should see it properly.”

“What was with the—“ Idan pulled his ratty sleeve back, revealing his wrist and tapping it, “How’d you open the door?”

The foyer he stepped into was dimly lit, a carved wooden table with a vase of tall stalks covered in little white flowers, a stark contrast to the dark wood and black décor around it. The walls ate the light with their darkness, absorbing it and leaving the room in a pale gray filter. Not nearly as interesting as to how Petra had opened the door with her wrist.

“It’s an implant,” she walked around the table to the entrance of the west corridor, beneath the grand, pristine black tiled staircase with gilded handrailing, “You’ll get one. It unlocks the doors and is a tracker.”

“I already have an implant,” Idan grumbled, hand flying to the spot at the back of his neck where he remembered the injection.

“It’ll be replaced. The Lady thinks those chips that explode are barbaric and a waste.”

“That’s something we can agree on,” he said, lowering his hand. There was a certain kind of anxiety that came with living knowing a chip at the top of your spine would explode with the press of a button. 

“Follow me,” she said curtly, disappearing into the dark corridor.

Idan took one last look around the large foyer, seeing the swirling chandelier that hung over his head. Long silver cables hung downward, pulled toward the ground by crystal-shaped lights at the end of each of them. Despite the size of the chandelier, the foyer was unbearably dim. It was already clear to him that his new master despised bright light of any kind. Or colorful paint. Sconces were mounted around him, and down each of the three branching corridors, black metal against dark gray walls. Black polished tiles covered the floors as Idan followed Petra. The hall offered the same style of décor; Idan felt as if he’d been buried in a tomb alive, cursed to roam its twisting halls endlessly until he starved to death or fell into a trap. He chuckled to himself as he thought how fitting it would be to die in a tomb not far from the one he’d been born in. Born in a tomb, die in a tomb, buried in a tomb. Death seemed to be a common theme in his life before it even really began.

“Something funny?” Petra asked, slowing her speed so she walked beside him.

“No,” Idan shook his head as they passed a door, cracked open enough that Idan could hear a fountain that ran inside, “She likes fountains, doesn’t she? The Lady?”

“The sound of water soothes her, so she says. She gets migraines that leave her in bed for days sometimes. You’ll notice you can no longer hear the thunder. The renovations for the estate took over a year—but she insisted that it be soundproofed.”

“Sounds like she hasn’t been here long, then.”

“Oh, no, this was years ago. I was just a little girl.”

“You’ve been with her that long?” Idan asked, surprised.

“Since I was born,” Petra said distantly, the beat of her heeled shoes against the tile slowed for a moment, and Idan slowed his pace to match, “Anyway, this is the main house. It’s a bit like a maze, but once you know the layout, it’s impossible to get lost.”

“It’s lovely,” Idan said under his breath.

“She likes having parties; they take place on Ziost, usually, but now and then she holds larger events here. You’ll be spending most of your time looking after her penthouse in New Adasta,” she gave him a quick up and down, “Among other things.”

“Such as?” he frowned.

Petra stayed silent as they passed two closed doors, each with large paintings nestled under scones on the walls between them, “Your accent, I don’t hear it often. Where were you born?”

“Here, actually,” he thought of adding the detail about the tomb but decided it best be saved for later.

She came to a complete stop, tilting her head like a lap dog being asked if it wanted a treat, “It’s not a Kaasian one.”

“I said I was born here, but I was raised all over the place—“he swiped a hand through his damp curls, “Open space, mostly. Are you going to tell me about those other things?”

“You’ll see,” she said, walking again.

“Brilliant,” he muttered to himself, the left corner of his mouth pulled downward in a frustrated half-frown, “I love surprises.”

“Can you read?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Write?”

“_Yes_,” he said, impatient and defensive, “Why?”

“You’ll probably like the hololibrary she has on Ziost. Not much to read here, I’m afraid. All the best books are there.”

“Oh,” Idan’s shoulders settled into a less defensive position; he’d been expecting a remark on his reading and writing ability given his upbringing, he was happy to be wrong, “How many languages?”

“Certainly more than I can name,” Petra laughed, a tiny snort escaping her. She looked up at him, mortified, “Do you have an interest in them?”

“A little,” Idan nodded, underplaying his interest by ninety-nine percent, “Basic and Huttese are the only ones I’m fluent in, but I can read more languages than I can speak.”

“That’s going to make you quite useful,” she said, like being useful was the reason he did it or had an interest in it. Or maybe it was that he should take pride in the idea of him being useful.

Either way. It wasn’t, and he didn’t.

“Just up here is where we sleep,” she turned down their third hallway. 

This one ended with a door that slid open upon their approach. Four single sized beds sat in a row, each with the headboard against the wall, mismatched and empty nightstands between them. The room was close to the size of the shelter he remembered living in with his mother, the entirety of it, refresher and all. This was a vast improvement from the lumpy cot he’d been sleeping in, thrown into the corner of the cargo hold like an afterthought.

“I know it’s a bit small,” Petra said, mistaking his silence for disappointment, “There aren’t any windows beside the skylight, but it’s pleasant enough.”

“There’s a skylight?” Idan gasped, overlooking the fact that he and Petra had vastly different definitions of the word small. He entered the room and stood beneath the opening in the ceiling — a clear view of the storm that had settled in above them. The thunder might have been muted, but at least he could see the lightning light up the sky from his bed. As long as he was able to claim the bed that was under it, “Which bed is mine?”

“You can have any of those three. This one by the door is mine.”

“I call this one, then,” he grinned, looking back up through the skylight. Rain streaked down the transparisteel, falling heavier now than it had been before. 

“It’s all yours,” he heard Petra sigh, “What size are you?”

“I’m sorry?” he looked away from the window, and she had managed to cross the room to the chest of drawers behind him.

“For your uniform.”

“I have a uniform?” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat as the heat of embarrassment rose into his cheeks.

“We all do.”

“Is that yours?” Idan gestured to her dress.

It tickled the tile floor with its long burgundy skirt, and lighter mauve-colored sleeves hung like curtains from her elbows. If there had been any more fabric draped onto her, she was under the genuine threat of being smothered by her clothes.

“One of them,” she said cheerily, “But you will have two. One casual, one formal.”

“I don’t know what size I am,” he admitted softly, “I’ve never needed to know; I usually make my own or have them handed down to me.”

She made a sound of exasperated disappointment. While Idan couldn’t see through the back of her head, he was sure he _felt_ her roll her eyes.

“We’ll have to measure you later,” she leaned over as she opened a drawer, pulling several articles of clothing from it before walking over to him. She took a long look up at the skylight first, “Pretty isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, still looking at her.

“You should go have a shower and get cleaned up before shaving. There’s a razor in the drawer under the sink, shaving oil on the counter. It’s mine, so I hope you don’t mind smelling like roses for a while. Soap and shampoo are there—also mine. We can get you your own soon. Towels are on the shelf.”

“A razor?” he repeated, watching as she put the pile of clothes at the foot of his new bed.

“To shave that thing on your upper lip,” she looked up, blinking her large blue eyes as a flash of lightning came through the skylight and lit them both in hot electric light.

Idan’s hand flew to his upper lip, but his fingers found it bare.

“Other side,” she said deadpan.

Long fingers traced his cupid’s bow to the other side, finding thin but prickly hairs she was speaking of; thoroughly surprised, he let out a short yelp of excitement, “Ha! I didn’t even know that was there!”

His first official facial hair—or hairs. _Noticeable_ facial hair. A minuscule rite of passage. 

“Yes, _quite_ the achievement,” she took a deep breath through her nose, “Please go as fast as you can; I have a lot to show you before dinner. I’m afraid the Lady had an exhausting meeting at the Citadel, and she won’t be in the kindest of moods. Worse than she was earlier.”

“She seemed alright to me,” Idan shrugged, “I’ve seen worse.”

“We’ll see what you have to say after dinner,” she clasped her hands in front of her, “If none of the clothes I gave you fit, there’s more in the dresser: shirt, vest, trousers, and a jacket. The jacket doesn’t have to be worn at all times, but she likes it on in her presence. The shirt and vest are mandatory. If you have any questions, I’ll be in the kitchen planning dinner.”

“Okay,” he said as she spun on her heel and marched to the door.

She disappeared wordlessly back into the hallway, leaving her aristocratic air behind her like a dust trail. 

“Oh, wait!” he called out, using his lanky legs to bound across the room and back into the hall, hopefully in time to catch her, but the eerily dark hallway was empty. He kicked the tile, the sole of his shoe shrieking across it, “Kriff, I have no clue where the kitchen is.”

That was a problem for clean Idan; he decided as he entered the refresher, coming face to face with a reflection he didn’t recognize. He’d gotten thinner, somehow. High cheekbones, while scuffed with dirt and grime, were more pronounced than they had ever been. Two clusters of cystic acne had formed along his jaw, the skin around it turned bright red. His nose was—he rubbed at it with the back of his hand—still too big for his face. That would likely never change, no matter how much more he grew. It was clear to him that he had his mother’s nose; it looked so much better on her, in his opinion.

Surely enough, he was able to spot the hairs on his lip that Petra had taken such offense to. They were thin, but the same black as the rest of the hair on his body—save for the hair on his head that had started to turn gray. Idan leaned forward, over the sink, until his nose was nearly touching the mirror. He wanted to remember this. It wouldn’t be his first time shaving; he’d taught himself when he thought what he was seeing was facial hair. It hadn’t been, but at least he had the practice.


	3. Chapter Two and a Half - From Womb to Tomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to 17 years prior, when Idan was born. Ysia and Echren welcome their son into the galaxy.
> 
> I know this doesn't make sense, but I swear, Idan's birth does in fact have something to do with the plot of this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to understand half of the stuff happening between these two, please don't hesitate to check out my other in-progress fic, Under the Violet Light, and the one on hiatus, Rising Son. Both include Echren and Ysia in a greater capacity.

Ysia had been humming the chorus of a song she’d heard for the past three hours, finding it soothing as she finished securing the protective paneling back to the underside of the construction crane. The ground beneath the crane had gone as soggy as the rest of the dirt around her as the rain continued to pour. Raindrops pattered against her legs, as they were the only part of her sticking out from beneath the enormous machine. The top of her pregnant belly had little leeway as she wiggled herself out, sliding along on the scrap metal she’d been laying back against.

Ysia openly welcomed the rain against her skin as she sat up, successful in her narrow escape. She tilted her head back, allowing drops to pool over her closed eyes. A dull but angry cramp started at her hips; she’d been experiencing them for the last twelve hours. As much as she hated the medical droid they had on staff, she realized with a pang of annoyance that she should probably check in with it. Just in case. She was going to hear the same advice again—she was old for a pregnant woman; she had to be careful. Yada yada.

Everyone was so keen on reminding her how old she was since the pregnancy had started. Now at thirty-four weeks, she was nearing the end of the journey. And while she appreciated that soon she’d be able to hold the energetic bug who would keep her up at night with his improvised acrobatic act. Soon, she was going to miss being able to protect him from the outside world. It’d been nothing but cruel to her so far. Though, she thought as she rested her hand on top of her belly, this certainly had been a highlight in her forty-three-years.

As she rose slowly, she felt her son wake up, pushing a foot or hand into her stomach and making her lunch rise into her throat.

“Let me finish standing first,” she growled, resting her hands heavily on her knees as she cautiously straightened her back. As she was afraid of, it triggered a cramp.

“You just had to wake up now, huh?” she said breathlessly, “You were asleep the whole time we were down there—“

There was an immediate kick in response, and she tapped where she saw a bump appear beneath the dark blue fabric of her shirt. Another kick, softer than before. He was still sleepy; she could feel it. They usually slept during these hours, but somehow she’d found herself on the nightshift. Exhausted and like the dead that had risen from their ancient graves, others around her worked on the crumbling outside of the tomb. It was why they were all here, to refurbish it and expand it—making room for the growing family of Sith who occupied the estate that hid behind the camp’s west wall.

The flash of lightning off in the distance caught Ysia’s eye, and as she looked away from the sky, she saw Echren. He towered over the two people beside him as they stood under the lamppost, conversing over the datapad in the shorter Sith pureblooded officer’s hands. The frown on his face, emphasized greatly by the shadows cast from the light above him, was pathetic and miserable. His eyes were on her, but he’d looked away as she caught him. With a roll of her eyes, she looked down. Unable to see her work belt beneath her belly, she relied on finding it with tired and sore fingers. As it came undone, the weight of her son shifted, and she cramped again. This one was stronger, and she had to catch her breath.

“You’re not trying to get out yet, are you?” she asked softly, “You still have more cooking to do, bug.”

“Cooking?” said a frustratingly familiar voice from above her. He hadn’t spoken to her for weeks, and now he just approached her to make fun of her vocabulary?

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, tight-lipped, as she lifted her head.

“Just coming over to check on your progress, how does everything look down there?” he asked, standing as he always did when he thought someone was watching—like he was hiding a blaster rifle up his butt.

“All ready to go for whoever has to operate it tomorrow.”

“Quick work, Aramysia…” he said with a nervous flash of a smile.

The word ‘but’ hung on his lips so heavily that Ysia could hear it before he spoke again. When he did say it, it sounded like an echo.

“But I do worry about your crawling down there in the mud. Given your condition,” boot heels clicked together nervously as he looked around the camp over her head.

“It’s my job, sir.”

“Yes, but I’m sure there’s plenty else you can do—“

“I do what I’m assigned, Captain Teern,” Ysia cocked her head to the side, “I don’t have a say in the matter.”

He shot her a quick glare before taking a slow breath, “I’ll have you reassigned, then. And during the day. Working through the night can’t be good for either of you.” His hand limply gestured to her belly as his eyes fell to it, gazing at it with the same miserable look she’d seen earlier.

“I thought you said I wasn’t going to be getting any special treatment because of my condition,” she crossed her arms over her chest, resting them a little on her belly.

Echren took another broad look over her head, sweeping the courtyard and deeming it safe enough for their conversation, “I meant above and beyond the necessary care for a pregnant woman, and you know that.”

“Actually, sir, I don’t,” she smiled sarcastically.

“I’m just trying to look out for you,” he shook his head, tucking his chin into his neck as he lowered his voice, “You’re not exactly young; I read that pregnancy in older women—Ysia!”

She had already turned away, walking ambitiously toward the ramp to the tomb entrance. Mud slicked shoes made her slide on the durasteel ramp, and she clung onto the handrail for support. It’d started another cramp, as she’d expected it would. A soft gasp escaped her as this one made it difficult to breathe. Everything told her she was going in the wrong direction—she should see that damned outdated medical droid—but Echren’s pursuit quickly changed her mind.

“Where are you going? Did you slip?” his hand pressed against her back gently, but she stood and moved away.

“I’m going to find something else to do until my shift is over!”

As fast as she could, which was considerably slower than usual, given her new gait, she walked into the tomb. The coolness of the air inside, while stale and full with hundreds of years’ worth of dust, relieved the heat that sat beneath her skin. The deeper she went into the tomb, the colder it became—the sweat that covered her did its job as the temperature around her shifted. Work would get her mind off the cramping; she had barely cramped at all while working beneath the crane. She just had to calm down and stop thinking. Specifically, stop thinking about Echren. How dare he call her old? She didn’t consider herself old, and the three-year difference between them didn’t make him old either. Except his entirely gray hair did an excellent job distracting the eyes from any youth that remained on his face.

By the time she’d found her way to the burial chamber she’d been working in the day before, she realized there was no one but her occupying it. The panel she’d been wiring still sat open, the tools she’d left there still strewn about the floor nearby. Perfect. She’d be back on track in no time.

Like lightning branching out through her torso and limbs, another cramp set her body on fire. New beads of sweat collected across every inch of her skin as she took several steps forward and leaned heavily on a burial crypt that sat at the center of the chamber. This had been the first one to nearly cause her knees to buckle.

“Are you kidding me?” she asked herself softly as she realized her pants where wet. It hadn’t been the first time the baby had made her pee herself, but something was telling her that it was going to be the last.

She leaned against the stone coffin harder, resting on her elbows and dropping her forehead against her arms. Her long nose squished against the coffin’s exterior as she rocked her hips side to side—finding momentary relief. Until the sound of running boot falls filled the chamber. There was only one person she knew who had feet big enough to be that loud.

“Please don’t do this to me here, bug,” she breathed heavily, “Not now.”

“Aramysia!” Echren called out worriedly, his voice lacking his usual authoritative tone.

“Oh, go away!” she hissed against the stone.

“I just wanted to explain myself—Why are you standing like that, are you alright?”

“There’s nothing to explain right now!” she removed herself from the stone and swung around to face him, grappling onto his jacket sleeves in a desperate need to hold onto something. She couldn’t straighten her back and remained hunched over like a rickety old woman—the one thing she’d been trying to convince everyone she wasn’t.

“What’s wrong?” he asked worriedly. He bent his knees, shortening himself so he could support her.

“I think—“ she pressed the top of her head against his chest as she felt something inside of her shift again, “I know I’m having a baby.”

“I think we all figured that out quite some time ago…”

Ysia slammed her head against his chest rather than smacking him, and knocked a breath out of him, “I meant right now!”

“Oh! OH!” he tensed against her, standing straight again as he hooked an arm around her shoulders, “Kriffing hell, Ysia, we need to get you to the medical tent!” He took a slow a cautious step, shuffling forwards.

But she felt her unborn child’s impatience, drumming away like a little heartbeat. He wanted out right now; his mind had been made up. Even if he had to be born on the floor of a tomb, this was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, damn it. She’d wanted a baby since she’d been old enough to play with dolls. None of it was what she’d pictured, just as her contractions hadn’t been what she’d expected contractions to feel like. The last thing she wanted to do was give birth on a nasty ancient floor.

That was until she realized she had to because her body was telling her to push.

“Nope, _nope_,” she pulled against him, stopping his momentum, “That’s not happening, he’s here.”

“Now?”

“Now!” she bellowed, her head dropped between her shoulders. _This_ was what she expected a contraction to feel like, she realized, like being torn in half. As her legs gave out from beneath her, Echren caught her. He dragged her back a few feet, resting her back up against the coffin belonging to a century dead Sith Lord. Undoubtedly an ancestor of Echren’s wife, whose family owned the tomb and connected estate. A woman whose name she didn’t even know.

“Will you let me help you?” Echren asked, hands hovering over the waistband to her pants, and unable to speak through the pain, Ysia nodded as she exhaled loudly through her mouth.

With her pants removed and tossed aside, Echren removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of the gray button-down shirt he wore beneath--all Imperial issue. She hadn’t seen him out of uniform since that night on Nar Shaddaa twenty years prior. 

“Did you see the head?” she asked as he returned to her side.

“That what?”

“_The head_, Ech, did you see the head?”

“I didn’t look…” a flush rose to his face, turning his cheeks pink and the tips of his prominent ears bright red, “Should I?”

Unable to answer, she cried through another contraction. As it settled and her cries became a pained whimper, she reached down between her legs and felt the bulge of the baby’s head. The stretching that was required to do so immediately exhausted her, and she leaned back, accidentally slamming the back of her head against the coffin. This was too fast, wasn’t this supposed to take hours?

“You need to catch him,” she croaked.

“Catch him?” Echren repeated with a dazed look in his eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes creased and he looked down at her bent knees in concern.

Her hands grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him down as she barred her teeth, “You need to get down there and catch the baby!” She shook him angrily before letting go.

“Catch the baby…” he gulped as he stood.

She felt his hesitation to kneel as he came to stand there, looking down at her like giant featherless and brainless orobird—he certainly had the legs for it, “Echren!”

He didn’t speak, but he knelt, settling between her knees sheepishly as the red in his ears increased.

“Emperor’s bones, Ysia, the head!” he said in shock as he draped his jacket over his arms, a makeshift--Imperial issue--hammock in which to catch the baby.

“I kriffing know!” she shouted, pushing once again. This time, it felt like the opposite progress had been made. The head she felt crowning had reversed back inside her, as if the stubborn child had made up his mind. Too late for that now, she thought as she took several deep breaths.

“The head disappeared,” Echren said, eyes going wide as he looked up to her, “It went back in—I don’t know what to do!”

“Is that normal?” she gritted her teeth.

“How should I know?”

“You already have two children! With your wife!”

“She wasn’t—I wasn’t—neither of us were there! Surrogates carried them!”

“You stupid motherkriff—Agh!” The desire to kick him square in the head or squish it between her knees was quickly beaten by the demand to push.

“He’s going to be too little,” Ysia gasped, tears suddenly welling up into her eyes. This was it; her pregnancy was over. Soon, she would surrender her child into the arms of his father. Her son’s most significant line of defense—her—would be removed; he would be at the mercy of the galaxy — the Empire.

“No,” she shook her head as her breath hitched, “I can’t—He’s not ready—I don’t—I don’t want to! It hurts! What if he can’t--”

Suddenly, she felt something in the back of her mind. It could have been the delirium of pain and labor, but she swore it was her son. Reassuring her that he was little, yes, but strong. And she trusted it, bearing down once more with everything she had until the immense pressure that had been building on her hips released, and she felt oddly empty.

“Oh, hell, he’s here!” Echren gasped.

“Hm?” Ysia mumbled, exhausted.

“He just shot out—all at once!” Echren laughed nervously.

Ysia took several moments to regain her mental capacity; it’d been turned to mush through all those contractions. The baby was out, and her body hurt but not in the same way it had before. There was a pounding in her ears as she opened her eyes and saw Echren staring down at the bundle in his arms, standing slow. Relief flooded her as she heard her son’s cry start-up like a sputtering engine. He shrieked for a second before it faded into a whimper.

“Can I see him?” she asked.

“Yes, right! Sorry,” he looked to her, sitting against the coffin beside her and gently lowering the bundle onto her chest. Little fists rested against her bare collarbone, “He’s just fine, Ysia, see?”

“Hiya, bug,” she said softly. She lifted her tired arms, tucking them into the jacket around him until her hands were on his wet skin. Realization crashed over her like a vase being dropped on her head; she had a baby. Finally. His little legs tried to stretch out to their capacity for the first time, long skinny legs, not at all the chubby fat ones she’d pictured. She could feel downy like hairs across his back and shoulders.

“That’s not his name, I hope,” Echren said, leaning forward to stand again, “I should go get help—“

“Wait,” she said, surprising them both, “Maybe just—just stay with me for a minute?”

So many things—most hateful and angry—still sat unsaid between them, but, whether he would admit it or not, this was _their _son. And as much as she wanted to tell him to jump out of an airlock, she found herself to be grateful he’d been here and that he’d stubbornly followed her. 

Echren sat back against the coffin and tucked his arm behind her, offering some cushioning between her and the cold stone. Quickly, he pressed a kiss against her hair; it’d been so long since he last kissed her, but this one felt more out of admiration than any romantic interest.

“He’s so small,” Ysia whispered. Comically big brown eyes squinted up at her in the dull greenish lighting of the chamber, and he pouted, pathetic and miserable. _How dare you do this to me_, his wrinkly mottled face demanded. An unusual amount of pitch-black hair clung to his scalp, slicked down and wet. Bright pink skin was a stark contrast to her own light brown, but even now, she could tell he was darker than Echren. She could only see one of them, but she could see that he had big ears—her ears. Her everything, really. She felt like she was looking at a baby picture of herself that her mother had once hung on the wall of the living room. The brown eyes, however, were from his father. As was the black hair—despite Echren’s having gone gray.

A voice echoed through the chamber, calling out for a response, “Does anyone need help? I heard screaming?”

“Yes!” Echren yelled, startling both Ysia and the baby, “She just had a baby!”

“A baby!?” the voice hollered back, cracking, “Hold on, I’ll go get an officer!”

“Help is on the way,” Echren said softly.

“Our son was just born in a tomb,” she snorted, the sheer ridiculousness of it all settling in, “We are surrounded by all your dead in-laws.” She broke into a fatigued giggle, one that hurt. Laughing after birth, not advised.

“He shot out of you like he was trying to enter hyperspace,” Echren stifled his chuckle, but Ysia snorted again, and they both broke, leaning into each other as it grew. The pain radiating from her body stopped her prematurely, but Echren continued softly. He looked back down at their son as she kept her eyes on him, seeing wonder glaze them over.

“His name is Idan,” she said, watching Echren’s face for a reaction. Not that it mattered, she’d picked out the name months ago the second she found out it was a boy. Even if he hated it, it wasn’t going to change her mind.

“Idan,” he repeated with a gentle smile, long absent of the gap between his two front teeth. 

“No,” Ysia scowled, shaking her head as her hair clip finally gave up, and her hair fell back down against her shoulders completely.

“Do you want me to help you with that?”

“Could you?”

Ysia tilted her neck down, her nose pressing against the top of Idan’s head. Echren snaked his arm back out from behind her, grabbing the clip where it had fallen into his lap. Gently, he gathered what hair he could, pulling it to the base of her neck and clipping it in a basic ponytail. With his arm back behind her, she leaned her head back against him.

“Thank you,” she said.

The loud echo of footfalls filled the chamber; a group of people were rushing in their direction.

“Sir!” Lieutenant Jennet, the young pureblood woman he’d been conversing with earlier, swung around the corner, followed by two other officers and four slaves.

Ysia suddenly found herself without Echren’s support—He’d slipped himself out from behind her so quickly that in her exhaustion, she had almost missed it. He was already on his feet as Ysia’s shoulder blade collided harshly with the stone behind her.

“We need to get this woman to the medical bay immediately, as well as her child,” he said with a lifted chin, he was conveying an order, nothing more.

“Of course, sir,” Jennet nodded.

“He’s early, she said, make sure they check him over twice—Just to cover our asses. We don’t need any more protests in Kaas City square about slave children dying.”

Ysia shook her head, that thought had been so cold and calculated. So much like his brother, Rillon, she wondered if he’d been possessed for a moment.

“I’ll see to it myself, sir,” Jennet nodded again.

“Good,” Echren clicked the heels of his boots together, anxiously, “I’ll go get all the paperwork started.”

And he left.

He’d left her there with an infant on her chest, wrapped in his jacket, which was still decorated in his rank insignia pin. The only proof she had that everything hadn’t been a dream was the very real infant lying on her chest, whimpering again as loud as he could.

“I’m here, Idan,” she said, tracing a long and gentle finger across his forehead, down his nose, and hovered over heart-shaped lips.


	4. Chapter Three - The Sandwich Inquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idan finds his way to the kitchen after Petra comes to find him, and they plan the rest of their evening when the Lady decided to stay in the city overnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Idan and Petra, your regularly scheduled programming.

**Chapter Three - "The Sandwich Inquisition" **

_Present_

The clothes had fit him. For the most part. He'd managed to find a belt in one of the drawers Petra had been in earlier, using the last notch before he'd have to resort to tying the belt around him. The sleeves of the dusted lavender blouse were centimeters too short for his arms, but the rest of the shirt was still a size too large. Petra hadn't specified that the trousers were mandatory, and he wondered for a moment if he should make a joke about it. No, he shook his head; he didn't know her well enough yet. 

He heard soft taps trailing him, the laces of his untied bootlaces dragging along the tile behind him. Each turn he took brought him to a place he hadn't seen before. He'd already found three staircases, two going up, one going down, that he hadn't seen on the way in. And with his most recent turn down another windowless hallway, he'd come face to face with a dead end. Nothing at the end of the short corridor but a grandiose painting that stat audaciously beneath spotlight sconces. A black enamel table sat beneath the portrait, filled with vases of mourning lilies, their dark petals of various desaturated reds, purples, and blues. Idan's nose tickled as the sweet scent reached him, awakening an issue he thought he'd managed to grow out of.

"Ah, crap," he inhaled sharply, sneezing into his elbow once—twice—three--four times. As the untouched vases on the table wobbled, his head spun as he blinked away the stars in his eyes, his hand going up to his nose to make sure it hadn't started bleeding, "Ow."

As his vision settled, he looked up at the painting, a full-body portrait of his new master, Lady Vemora—The Lady, as she preferred to be called. And Petra, who stood dutifully behind the ornate velvet chair, the Lady sat in so lavishly. Her hair was cropped at her shoulders; she looked decades older, far from the cherubic woman he'd been trying to locate for the past twenty minutes. Whoever the artist was, they did a terrible job of capturing her soft appearance, Idan thought as he scowled up at it. He hadn't even known her a day, but he knew that the wrinkles that sat around the portrait's eyes and mouth weren't ones that were currently there. There was no doubt in Idan's mind that the woman was Petra, still. Just a poorly drawn one. In her early forties, not the eighteen she'd seemed so proud earlier.

"Did you get lost?" she asked, the accusation in her voice reverberating off the otherwise empty walls around him.

Idan jumped, startled. A vase of lilies propelled itself several inches from the table before crashing to the floor, in turn, startling Petra. One eyebrow arched high enough into her forehead that it practically joined her hairline.

"Kriff," Idan said, dropping down to his knees to assess the damage, "I'm sorry, I must' ve—must have hit the table."

He hadn't touched the table; he knew that. It'd been the force again, like a persistent tap on his shoulder to remind him it was there. Don't_ ignore me, it_ seemed to shout in his ear. He carefully gathered the flowers in his arm, shaking them free of the rubble of the shattered vase.

"It's fine, leave it," Petra sighed, coming up behind him, "I'll get it with a broom later."

He stood, placing the flowers flat against the table, "Okay."

"At least I don't have to show you where the Lady's office is, seeing as you found it yourself," she said cooly, eyebrow relaxed.

"Office?" Idan whipped around as she walked to the wall beside him.

She waved her wrist at the wall; a blue blink appeared at eye level, and with a short hiss from the wall, she'd managed to reveal the seam of a door. 

"I'm the only one allowed in there," she said, waving her wrist again as the seam disappeared, "Other from the Lady, of course."

"Of course," Idan said, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand.

"I can get you a handkerchief for your uniform if you'd like; it'll take a few days."

"Oh, um—Thank you." Idan nodded, dropping his hands down by his side, "Is that you? In the painting?"

She looked over his shoulder, staring at it for a long few seconds, lost in the flat strokes of shiny oil paint. Now in the harsher shadows, Idan could see the resemblance, but still, something felt off. It could have been her hair, how much longer it was in person—the back half she wore down reached her hips, dusting the top of the slight bustle that added to the skirt's volume. Idan had noticed it earlier as she was leading him around, but it hadn't stood out until now.

"Who else could it be?" she scoffed, rolling her eyes as she spun on her heel, "We're on our own for the evening, by the way. The Lady will be spending the night at a friend's apartment in Kaas City—she says the storm set off one of her migraines. She'll be home in the morning."

Idan followed her as she set off back into the house, leading him somewhere in particular or nowhere at all. She hadn't specified.

"So what do we do tonight?" he said.

His stomach growled impatiently, and Petra looked at him in amusement.

"Something tells me food is a good place to start," she said with a light chuckle, "When was the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday," Idan answered truthfully.

"I made something for us while you were cleaning up. I hope you don't mind sandwiches."

"I happen to love sandwiches. Of all kinds. As long as there's something between two pieces of bread, I'm great."

"Even if it's just more bread?" she asked, a bit snarkily.

"Never tried it, but worth a shot if that's all there is," he shrugged.

"Well, this is sliced roast nerf. Nothing special. But the bread is fresh, delivered this morning."

"That sounds perfect."

The kitchen was hidden at the opposite end of the house that Idan had managed to wander into. At least—he thought it was. He took a quick look over his shoulder. Every hallway looked the same. They could have just walked in circles for five minutes, and he would have had little clue other than the repeating artwork. Behind a decorative archway sat a door. And behind that door was a kitchen that gleamed so brightly with polished durasteel countertops and appliances that Idan had to shield his eyes with his arm. 

"I cleaned the kitchen myself yesterday," Petra said proudly.

"You did--" Idan blinked several times as he lowered his arm—"a fantastic job."

As far as sandwiches went, this one was nice. There was a tang to it, mustard maybe. Placing tastes wasn't his strong suit, but being unable to figure it out on his own was becoming frustrating. Still, Idan held his tongue. Petra hadn't specified a no talking while eating rule, but she hadn't spoken a word since they sat at the tucked-away table against the wall. At least the lighting in here made sense, florescent and unbearable, not a casted shadow to be seen except for under the table.

There was nothing wrong with eating in silence. Silence was how Idan had been enjoying his meals for the past several months, confined to his own corner of the cargo hold when he wasn't working. It was the constant but fleeting eye contact they kept making that was driving him up the wall. How many more times would he have to half-smile with his mouth full because he caught her staring at him, or her catching him doing the same to her?

"Is there something on this?" he asked after swallowing a mouthful he should have probably chewed more thoroughly.

"Yup, the fancy kind, from the jar." she nodded and took another bite.

"Oh. Neat."

He didn't even know mustard came in jars.

Joke time, now or never. He was unable to think of any other options, "_So,_ you didn't say that the pants were mandatory, but I wore them anyway."

Petra turned away quickly, putting the last bit of her sandwich down on the plate. Idan had heard the soft snuffle of a giggle, crushed by her willpower before it could escape her throat. She turned back just as quickly, stonefaced, "I appreciate it."

He waited for a few more beats before asking the question that'd come back to mind, "Do we get access to the holonet?"

Petra finally looked up at him, unhunching herself over her plate. A crumb fell from her lip to the plate, and Idan watched it fall.

"Yes."

"Really?" he leaned toward her, his voice low, "For anything?"

"Within reason," she said, eyeing him in suspicion, "You're not going to do anything nasty, are you?"

"What?" Idan pulled himself back, giving his head a quick shake as a curl flew past his eyes, "What do you mean?"

"Best not," Petra said, putting down her food, "Are you looking for something?"

"Somewhere, actually."

"Somewhere?"

"I think we're close to where I grew up for a while—I wanted to check a map or something."

"And here I was worried about how I'd keep myself busy tonight," she said cheekily, slipping her tiny body from the chair. She hooked an arm under Idan's armpit, pulling him up to a standing position, "Come on, the Lady has a holonet terminal in the library."

"But my sandwich?" Idan allowed himself to be pulled from the kitchen but took a long forlorn look back at his dinner.

"It's not going anywhere," she said.

She'd been right about the library here not being worth much. It was mostly empty, and the only shelf in the room was filled with knickknacks and awards. Some made of clear cut crystal, others in wood and precious metal. All to people who Idan assumed were in, or once part of, the Lady's prestigious family.

"Let me put in the passcode," Petra sat in front of a terminal desk, the holographic display coming to life in front of her, "Where did you grow up? Do you have a location?"

"Um," Idan stood behind her chair, leaning heavily against the back, his head practically floating over her shoulder, "Sort of. There's an estate next to this giant tomb—I grew up in the camp next to it. Kriff, what was the number…"

"That was Camp 16," Petra turned her widening blue eyes to him, "You were there?"

"You know it?"

"Only because of the riot. We could see the smoke—smell it. It's right in the valley down there. You can see it from the Lady's office window on the south side."

"Can you show me?" Idan asked breathily.

"I can't let you go in there."

"Can I make it there if I walk?"

"You—"Petra stood abruptly—"You can't just leave when the Lady isn't here."

"How's she going to stop me?"

"She'll—I'll—"

"You'd turn me in?"

Petra shut her mouth quickly, "No," she mumbled, "Probably not."

"Do you know the way there?"

She shook her head.

"Can we look?" he gestured to the terminal, and Petra sat back down at it.

Together, they plotted a course. The Lady's droid chauffeur would take them to a clearing outside the old site, to which, they could sneak in.

"_Break_ in," Petra corrected Idan as he went over the plan one last time, "We are _breaking_ in."

"We? Who's we?" Idan looked up from the small section of jungle map they'd zoomed in on.

"I'm going with you."

"I thought you—"Idan lifted his wrist and pointed to it—"You're tracked."

"So are you."

"Right, but's she's more likely to check on you than me—Considering it's your job to babysit me all night."

"I'm not babysitting you," Petra crossed her arms, "As for the Lady, she trusts me probably more than she should… I doubt she'll be checking in on either of us tonight. It's up to you, though. Either I'm coming, or I'm telling the Lady what you're doing."

Well. That left him with only one option, "Fine. But I don't want you asking a bunch of questions."

"I'm about to visit the childhood home of a boy I met four hours ago. What questions could I possibly have?"

Damn it. Was that sarcasm again? Or was she hinting to the fact that they'd known each other for such little time, she didn't care? Should he ask?

"If we want to be back here in time to get any sleep before morning, we should leave," she said.

"Just out the front door?"

"I'll call for Dee-ex, he'll bring the speeder to the loading pad."

"Are you sure Dee-ex will keep our secret?"

"Of course, Dee-ex loves me," she said flatly, "He used to be my nanny droid."

"Oh," Idan sighed. Of course, he should have known. How silly of him. Because everyone had a nanny droid turned chauffeur droid.


	5. Chapter Four - What Do Force Ghosts Take For Allergies?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idan and Petra break into the camp where he grew up and find it deserted. Mostly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We now return to our regularly scheduled 'Teenage Idan and Petra Being Chaotic Dumbasses'.

**Chapter Four – What Do Force Ghosts Take For Allergies?**

Idan hopped down from the speeder, turning to offer Petra assistance in getting out. She’d swapped out her shawl for a more substantial, rain-resistant cloak that clung around her shoulders, and pushed it back on her arm to accept his hand.

“No one should notice you here, Dee-dee. Wait for us to get back, it won’t be long.” Petra said warmly. 

The nanny turned chauffer droid silently nodded and turned its attention back ahead.

“Dee-dee?” Idan said, looking up as he knelt to tie his boot.

“It’s a nickname.”

“Why don’t they talk?” he stood, running a quick hand through his hair as he let out a nervous but excited breath, the hint of a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“Her voice box was removed when she became a chauffeur.”

Idan would have mentioned that he thought the act to be cruel, but from the tone of Petra’s voice, it was clear that she already felt the same. Referring to it might make her feel worse.

“I think it’s this way,” he said, instead of anything comforting.

She appeared to appreciate it as she gestured to the mass of trees before them, “After you.”

“You know,” Idan was in the middle of taking his first step when he stopped, reversing himself to turn back to her, “We didn’t bring anything in case we meet up with something—like a jurgoran or a sleen… I hate sleens.”

“I have a stun gun in my bag,”

“You have a bag?” he looked her up and down, but didn’t see anything.

Petra rolled her eyes, lifting her cloak to reveal a crossbody bag she wore beneath, over her dress, “I also brought water and the rest of you sandwich.”

“You brought—” Idan cut himself off with a chuckle, “You brought the rest of my sandwich?”

“Well, you seemed like you wanted to finish it when I dragged you away. Do you want it now?”

“No,” he said, “But that was sweet, thank you.”

Petra bumbled to herself for a moment, flustered, “I wasn’t trying to be sweet. I didn’t want you to go hungry.”

“What’s this way?” Petra

“The river,” Idan said with a new emptiness, both in his voice and stare, “Don’t go over there.”

“So, where do we go?”

“Here,” Idan nudged his shoulder toward another large section of brush, “There was a path once.”

“Really?” Petra pulled the end of her dress of the bush it’d caught itself on.

“I walked it every day.”

“It’s been about a decade, I think—since they abandoned this place.”

“Are you sure it was a riot? Do you know if—“ Idan bit down on his lower lip. Did he want the answer to this question? It was hard to discern what was worse, wondering forever if his mother was alive or knowing for sure she was dead, “Do you know if anyone died?”

“A lot of people died,” Petra’s eyes widened, “That’s what I heard, anyway. Not the biggest riot in history, but big enough to get people talking. I remember the Lady was the center of attention for weeks after because we watched it unfold from her office window. She told everyone she met that she witnessed the Red River Riot ‘first hand’.”

“Red River Riot?” That sounded terrifying-that river had been anything but red when he’d last saw it. He was in it, nearly drowned—he’d tasted the water in his mouth for days after.

“That’s what the river’s called,” she said as if he should already be aware of such things.

It’d always just been referred to as the river in camp.

“Well, that’s not true, it’s called Dileryel River, but there’s a span of it that runs through a mineral clay deposit that turns the water red. Down past here, though. It’s part of a spa resort near the base of the mountain. The Lady’s been there dozens of times. I’m always stuck in the waiting room watching their informational videos about the magical healing powers of the water…”

That water. How he hated that water. White with crashing rapids that’d nearly crushed him. His throat tightened, and he swore for a moment he was choking on it, river water bubbling into his lungs and stomach.

“I’ve been in that water, there’s nothing magical about it,” Idan said, his voice clipped as he quickened his pace, thrashing past a sizeable flowering bush and stumbled blindly into a clearing.

“What’s wrong with you?” Petra said worriedly behind him.

“Nothing.”

He had found what they were looking for. But it was far from the camp that Idan remembered. It looked like an overgrown dump site someone had tried to eliminate by setting on fire.

“The Lady hates that they haven’t cleaned this up yet. It’s been over a decade. They’ve had plenty of time.” Petra moved a piece of small debris with her foot.

“They?”

“Them.” She pointed limply to the wall up ahead, “I forget their name. They’re lowly—have a lot of money but not much else. The Lady stopped inviting them to her parties when the daughter married a Naval Lieutenant.”

“She seems to have a lot of opinions,” Idan scowled, stepping over a vine-like plant that’d sprouted from a mound of dirt and remnants of the fence that once stood there; ripping the camp in half. “Come on; it’s down this way.”

He started down the small hill to grass and brush-covered patch below; in his mind, he saw the one-room emer shelter that had served its purpose well beyond its purported years. It was no longer standing—none of them were. There used to be fifty—seventy at most. Huddled together like the herd of nerf he used to watch Soon put into the barn each night. There were small hills, debris piles that’d been taken over by plants. 

“I think this was…” he turned in a circle, trying to gain his bearings. It didn’t help, all he got from it was a mild spell of vertigo, “It was over here—One of these.”

“What was?”

“My home.”

“Oh.”

“A bit hard to tell them apart now,” Idan knelt, what he hoped was water seeped into the fabric at his knee.

“Are you hoping to find something in particular?”

“No,” he shrugged, digging past the thin layer of dirt and finding layers of bent and twisted durasteel paneling, “I don’t know.”

“So…” Petra’s reluctance to say what she wanted was evident to Idan even though he had his back turned.

“Say it,” he grumbled.

“Did you and your parents leave before the riot? You didn’t seem to know a thing about it.”

He stood, glaring at the half dug-up pile and moving to the next one, “I wasn’t here for the riot. But my mother was. We were separated. I was sold off and sent to Hutta, and she stayed here.”

“What about your father?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you looking for him, then?”

“No,” Idan turned and frowned over his shoulder, “I don’t know him. It was just my mom and me.”

“Then you’re looking for proof she’s alive?”

“Or dead,” Idan said, feeling like he’d shot himself in the stomach point blank with a blaster. But still, he dug his fingers into the dirt; again, he found little more than scraps, “Can I answer your questions later?”

“Sure,” Petra said softly behind him. 

With a short scrap of metal in her hand, she shoveled away at another mound.

They’d practically been neighbors. She had a bird eyes view of the first seven years of his life. He could almost remember knowing there was a cliff off in the distance, but never once had he thought about the people living on it. Why would he? Everything he knew was in the same several acres of jungle. As far as he’d been concerned, the outside world barely existed.

His galaxy had been tiny back then. With a nostalgic pain, he wondered if it’d ever be that perfectly small again, or if the rest of his life, he would feel like he was drowning in the vastness of it. How much he would give to return to a time where all that matter was himself, his box of treasures, helping his mother finish their quilt, and pulling slugs off the solar heater so his mom wouldn’t have to. To go back to crawling in the mud to see turtles—to holding the torch steady as his mother finished wiring a panel—how towards the end of their time together, her hands would hurt, and it would be up to him to use the pliers.

He’d been so worried about the day he was taken from her; her hands were worse than ever. It’d terrified him that she wouldn’t be able to do her job without him. 

“Idan,” Petra said softly, “I think I found something.”

Leaving the memories in the fog that had settled around his ankles, Idan turned away from the overgrown pile, “What is it?”

“Just a little trinket,” she mumbled, opening her hand as he looked down.

There was indeed a trinket nestled gently in her sloping palm, covered in thick layers of ash and mud that had crusted around the exterior. Not one of his though. It surprised him how the disappointment speared through his chest—sharp and overwhelming. 

“I don’t recognize it,” he said over her shoulder.

“It looks like an old Captain’s badge. It was wrapped up in this,” her other hand revealed a stained, mud-covered cloth.

“Let me see that,” Idan reached for it, holding it to his face to better see in the dull evening light, “Does this look yellow to you?”

“Yellow?” Petra laughed, “Maybe once, but not anymore.”

“I think this was our front door,” Idan mumbled as his jaw went slack.

There was static to the cloth, or perhaps in his fingers. Since they’d landed, he felt like there was a ghost at his shoulder, slowly directing him deeper into the site—though it was beginning to feel more like an unmarked gravesite. There was the faint presence of his mother—or at least a feeling he related to his memory of her—hanging in the air with the rising fog.

“We should start heading back soon; I don’t want the Lady to notice a big gap in Dee-dee’s logs.”

“I can’t believe you’re going to get in less trouble for sneaking here than you would sneaking me into her office,” Idan grumbled as he pushed the cloth scrap into his pocket, the same as his crystal.

Petra scoffed, “Her office has cameras that she checks. Bandits could rob the rest of the house, and she’d never know. But I take one step inside her office—and she’s calling me on a holo to ask if everything is okay.”

“What’s in there that she’s so worried about?”

“There’s something vital to her in there, and she likes to keep it protected.”

“That’s incredibly ominous.”

“It is,” Petra nodded wryly.

“You’re really not going to tell me?”

“I barely know you. I don’t trust you yet.”

“You trusted me enough to come break into an abandoned slave camp with me.”

“That wasn’t about trust; that was about staving off boredom for the evening.”

“Ah,” Idan nodded once, keeping his chin tucked into his neck for a moment as he frowned, “And how’s that working out for you?”

“To be honest?” Petra side-eyed him, “A little underwhelming.”

“We could break into the tomb.”

“_What?_”

“I said we could break into the to—”

Petra held up her hand, so close to his face that he was forced to crane his neck back awkwardly.

“I heard you, it was a statement of shock, not a question,” she huffed, “What if we get caught?”

“No one’s caught us yet,” Idan shrugged with boney shoulders.

This was all very stupid of them, he realized suddenly. Impulsive and stupid. What if they did get caught? Not by the Lady, he didn’t know her enough to be worried about her yet; Petra certainly didn’t seem to be. He’d managed to talk her into the idea quite easily. But it wasn’t until he had his feet on the jungle floor--untrodden wet dirt, soft beneath his boots just as he remembered—that he had considered being caught by someone other than his new master. Like a Sith, a big possibility given they were going to be breaking into the tomb of a family of them—that lived on the opposite side of the wall.

It was both exciting and terrifying. More thrilling than anything.

“Might as well, since we’re already here,” he said.

“That’s dangerous—“

“Dangerous? There’s nothing dangerous in there; I practically grew up in there—I was _born_ in there.”

Her brows knitted high on her forehead in surprise, “That’s a bit of a morbid start, isn’t it?”

“Not—“ Idan inhaled, begging for patience, “Not the point I was trying to make. There’s nothing in there.”

“Alright then, Mister Danger, you first.”

Nothing wrong with that, Idan thought as he marched past her.

A few meters in, something shrieked at him from the inky darkness. 

“Oh!” Idan jumped, gripping Petra’s arm in one hand as he stiffened, coming to a full stop, “What was that?”

“Your bravery is remarkable,” she sighed, “There’s a lantern right over there, I’ll go—“

She found herself unable to move as long as Idan held onto her, “Do you mind?”

“Sorry,” he let go, offering up both his palms in apology.

“Do you want to carry it,_ Mister Danger_, or will it be up to me?”

“Have at it,” Idan frowned, at the nickname more than anything.

And she did. She led the way for a good few minutes, finding no signs of anyone or anything. The crypts that had been expanded upon still laid empty, the main tomb in the center uncovered and barren.

“They worked on this place for years, and it looks like nothing was done,” Petra lifted the lantern over her head.

“That was the point. They wanted uniformity. The chamber we’re standing in wasn’t even dug out until I was five.”

“You’re telling me you were _born_ in here?” Petra sounded disgusted—she had every right to be. 

It looked haunted, and it smelled like the stinky mushrooms his mother would smuggle back to camp and then try to sneak into his soup. He always picked them out and sorted them by ascending size on the table, much to her annoyance.

“How long ago?” she added to her previous question, “Because it looks like this place has been abandoned for a century.”

“Seventeen years.”

“You’re only seventeen?”

Had his age truly been weighing on her mind so heavily for the past six hours?

“It’s the hair, isn’t it?” he reached up and twirled the gray around his fingers, “Or the nose? It’s a little big—“

“It’s the hair.”

“Ah.”

The phantom of his mother’s presence was sharp, growing with each step they took. The tomb housed more than the dead Sith that lay in it—in his mind, he saw holo-like images of his time spent working with his mother play out before him. Over there was where he’d given the last half of his ration bar to a rat that’d quickly learned to follow them for food. 

_“Did you train the rat to follow us?” his mother had asked, her hands on her hips._

_ “No,” he’d said with a dramatic shake of his head, “But I gave him food so he could be my friend.”_

She’d started offering the rat bits of her own rations afterward. Any friend of his was a friend of hers, was what she’d told him. Then the Overseer started getting complaints about rats and had them all trapped and exterminated. I felt a red hot bolt of disgust shoot through me, starting from the ground and working its way up until my face felt hot—the Overseer. I hadn’t thought about him in a while. Mom had hated him, so had I, out of solidarity.

The memories_ hurt_—the desperation he’d once felt to get back to her bubbling back to the surface. It’d been a decade, it didn’t make sense that it’d still pain him this much. The amount of real physical pain he was suddenly in hadn’t been expected or prepared for. He’d been so sure he’d be fine. 

This wasn’t fine.

It was about one lightyear away from fine.

Make that ten.

“It feels like there are still people in here,” he said, “Like ghosts or something.”

“Force ghosts, maybe?”

“Maybe. Probably not. I never saw any before.”

“That you remember.”

“Hey!” Idan leapt to his feet, “We should go that way!”

“Why? What in the stars is that way? More dead people?” she lifted the lantern in the opposite direction, back the way they came.

Idan looked back over his shoulder. Down through the dark unlit antechamber and through another hall was _the_ burial crypt. The one where he’d been born. His mother had pointed out the spot to him every time they passed it, revealing a new detail to the story each time she told it as he grew older. Giving birth to a baby all alone in a burial chamber, she’d once said, was one of the craziest days of her life.

But—Petra wasn’t going to care about any of that. 

“Never mind,” he said with a shrug, trying to ignore the growing urge to go down there, “It’s nothing. We should probably head back.”

“Thank the Emperor, I’m exhausted,” she said through a yawn, “I’ll let Dee-dee know—“

A sneeze echoed through the antechamber, one that didn’t come from either of them.

“_Whah!_” Petra spun, clutching her cloak in a white-knuckled fist, “What was that?”

“Someone sneezed,” he said softly, “Now who’s scared, Missus Danger?”

“Some_one_ or some_thing_? And that’s _Miss _Danger.”

Idan chuckled, “Last I checked, ghosts don’t have allergies or get colds.”

Petra’s shoulders seemed to relax a little, “So someone else is here? I thought you said this tomb was abandoned!”

“It—I thought it was!” Idan scowled, his voice cracking and rising in volume.

“Shh, are you crazy!?” Petra whisper-yelled, “Shut up!”

“Someone down there?” came a masculine voice, echoing like the sneeze.

“Kriff,” Idan and Petra whispered at once.

They weren’t alone, that much was clear. And by the sound of the voice that called out in the dark, the person they were about to disturb didn’t like the idea of visitors.

Boot falls sounded through the antechamber as Petra shut of her lantern. She grabbed Idan’s sleeve with her other hand, dragging him behind her to the pillar where the chamber split into two corridors—specifically the one they’d just come through.

Idan stopped her, pulling her back as he realized the sound of their own running feet was going to give them away. They needed to hide—quickly. If the rising volume of the footfalls were any indication as to how much time they had left, it was seconds. He swung the arm Petra held onto toward the pillar and the wall, directing her towards it and slamming his own shoulder against it.

“What—” she began, but something behind Idan caught her attention. She pushed him harder against the wall, turning him around by the shoulders.

On instinct, Idan found himself crouching; knees bent and ready to take off if he needed. Petra stood behind him, breathing worriedly against his neck.

“Idan,” she whispered into his ear as they watched the blue lantern light approach from the northwest passage, “We need to get out of here.”

“Hold on,” he hushed, “Not with them so close, they’ll hear us.”

The breath against his neck got heavier as he felt her sigh.

This would have possibly been the cushiest placement of his life—he had his own bed, free access running water, an entire kitchen full of food that he, according to Petra, had full access too-within means. It was practically promised that he’d never have to go to sleep with the aching nausea of an empty stomach again. And he ruined it, or at least, he was about to. For what? A pair of rusty pliers and a scrap of yellow mildew-covered cloth? They were just things, they weren’t going to bring his mother back. They weren’t going to restore what life he had with her, or give them the future they’d been working towards. It was just him now. And Petra.

His hand went into his pocket, nervous fingers finding the crystal and jamming his thumbnail into the crack that’d developed several years prior. The braided leather cord wrapped around his fingers, tangling around them. There was a new static in the air, closing in around him like the mountain fog, the thick promise of danger choking his lungs with the humidity of the tomb.

Once again, he’d destroyed everything. The camp—the tomb—If Petra had been right about her estimation of time, the Red River Riot had happened around not too long after he’d been taken.

Both of them held their breath as they heard him on the other side of the wall. The soft creak of the lantern handle as it swung in time with the dancing light on the ground. Silently, Idan willed the light to grow dimmer, for the man to go back down the pitch-black corridor he’d come from. And slowly, it did. He would have preferred to wait until they’d been left entirely in the dark, but there was a whisper at his ear.

“I’m going,” Petr said.

As Idan took his hands out of his pocket to stop her, he felt the cord leave his fingers—as he tossed his crystal into the middle of the room, where the man had just been searching. 

“Shit,” Idan said out loud, catching it in midair with the force. It zoomed back to him, but so did the light of the man’s lantern. Having left his hiding spot, he was completely exposed. With his focus now on the man, the crystal fell several feet short of his hand.

“You! Stop!” the man shouted.

He pulled himself away from Petra, who appeared to give up on him entirely and started running toward the exit. Idan’s shoes slipped against the wet stone floor as he scrambled for his crystal before the man caught up to him.

“What are you doing in here—“ the man demanded, closing in.

With the crystal in his hand, Idan fell backward, landing hard on his butt. The lantern hung over him briefly as he rushed to his feet. It blinded him from being able to see the man’s face.

“Idan?” the man said in a hushed gasp.

He couldn’t possibly have heard that right, it was the tomb playing tricks. But that familiar presence he’d felt upon entering—He’d been so sure it was just the nostalgia of being here. Or Petra was right, and ghosts were real.

“Who--“ Idan began, but Petra grabbed him and lifted him to his feet.

There was a tug at the untucked side of his shirt, and he was spun around—right into Petra, who quickly started pulling him along behind her.

“Are you dense? Come on!” she snapped.

“No, wait!” the man shouted, sounding desperate, “_Stop!_”

Part of him wanted to turn around, but his boots kept beating the ground; his legs had already made up their mind. They were leaving; Idan could do nothing but follow them—they _were _his legs, after all.

They both ran back to the speeder, neither stopping to see if they’d been followed. Not until they were several feet above the ground.

It took Idan several, long, and agonizingly quiet minutes for Idan to catch his breath—he wasn’t made for running. Long legs aside, he wasn’t athletic in the slightest.

“Petra,” Idan began, but she held up her finger.

“I’m not speaking until we get back home,” she pointed her blue eyes at the back of Dee-dee’s head, and Idan remembered her saying the Lady had ways of learning things.

“Okay,” he said, settling into the speeder’s back seat. It would give him time to come up with several ways to apologize. _‘I’m sorry’_ didn’t feel like it was going to cut it.

The landing pad lit up as Dee-dee lowered the speeder down onto it, illuminating the overhanging trees by the wall in warm yellow light. Petra’s hair looked like spun gold as she hopped down from it before Idan could turn and offer his hand.

She jumped and slammed her open hand against his arm, slapping him in the same spot several times, “Are you trying to get us killed?” she said through her teeth, “How am I supposed to explain why you’re missing when she comes back! She spent 60,000 credits on you! This was so stupid!”

“I know!” Idan said, “I know, I’m sorry!”

“I can’t believe I had to go back for you!” she slapped him again, weaker this time.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“You’re going to need to behave yourself if you’re going to be around my son,” she said under her breath, “I can’t have him growing up thinking this is okay!”

“Your son?”

“Yes. My son.”

“I wasn’t aware you had a son.”

“You are now,” she said tightly.

“Where is he?”

“On Ziost.”

“Of course,” Idan reached up and wrapped a few curls by his ear around his fingers, “Ziost.”

“Part of your duties will be caring for him.”

At least now it made sense why the Lady was so interested in his past as a nanny. For a moment, he’d been concerned that she was hoping to have children in the near future—He wasn’t as good with babies as he was with toddlers. In fact, he’d never even held a baby before. All the children under his watch at the farm had been between the ages of two and thirteen.

“That makes sense,” he nodded, “I um—I promise not to do anything like this again?”

He didn’t want to be lying, it truly was his intention to never do anything like this again. But it felt like a lie none the less.

“Good.” Petra nodded once, waving her wrist in front of the side door she’d mentioned earlier, and it slid open, “You should get to bed. We’re leaving for Ziost in the afternoon.”

“We are? Since when?”

“Since the Lady decided it earlier. She told me when she said she was staying in the city for the night.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I’m telling you now,” she said, turning quickly back into the house.

Idan waited, standing outside for a moment. It would be a good idea to leave his memories out there as well, he told himself. If he genuinely wanted to move on with whatever life this was going to be, he had to stop living in the fantasy that there was a day he would ever be able to find his mother or get a clear answer as to what happened to her. The feeling to return to the tomb lingered deep within him, a threadbare tug back to the jungle. There was still the presence at his shoulder. He didn’t need to look to know that no one was there, but he did anyway. The courtyard was empty, save for him. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs until they were sore, and followed Petra through the side door, leaving whatever specter had followed him out in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Hummus.... Thoughts?


End file.
